Tea, Toast, and Piracy
by LondonBelow
Summary: Sooner or later, Mycroft would throw his brother to the lions. Might as well get it over with... The Holmes boys in the early years, before life was complicated by things like politics and Year Nine.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:** Sherlock and Mycroft Holmes are the creations of Arthur Conan Doyle, and these particular versions belong to the BBC.

A half-hearted rain dripped down from the sky, casting a shade over the sun. The faintest trickle came from the rainpipe. Droplets plopped down into the garden. Frog weather, reflected Mycroft, standing inside the kitchen and looking out. He would leave his bedroom window open tonight, if the rain stopped, listen to the croaking amphibians send up their rough music.

He glanced over his shoulder. The kitchen was mostly clean. There was a mug of tea sitting out, a used one drying in the dish drainer. Each drop of water landed with a splat not wholly different from the sounds of the rain, but easily distinguishable. Mornings were subdued, lonely sorts of times, with Father gone again and Mummy still abed—another of her funny phases—just him and the tick of the clock and the whir of small motors and the rhythm of the rain, him and the absence of snores or footsteps telling him his brother was awake but likely still under the covers.

Wouldn't it be strange if the world worked on shifts, like in factories?

The toaster dinged and a slice of toast popped up. He retrieved the jam jar from the refrigerator, took a knife from the drawer and spread a thin layer of dark jam like a bruise.

The knife slipped. It was little, tiny really, but the sight of that smear on his cuff and he heard the sharp voice of his teacher. _Have you no clean shirts, Mr. Holmes, or are you simply above such things? _Or worse, or a comment on his penmanship or a misspoken word or the question he missed on his last maths exam. There was always something. He winced. The teacher did not like him. Sometimes that happened. Sometimes they liked his cleverness; sometimes he would be better hiding it.

He would change. He would learn to hide it. He tried, truly he did, but he was only twelve years old and it was hard.

_Soft,_ said the scornful voice in his head. _Excuses, excuses, Mr. Holmes._

With a cringe he would have bothered to hide if anyone had been around to see it, he set the dirty-bladed knife down in the sink. It made a low, cold sound, the industrial cousin of the dribbling rain.

He added an extra dash of milk and gave the tea another stir. Then he picked up the mug and the plate of toast and started up the stairs, trying not to smear the jam any worse. Of course he failed. Sticky sweet mess stuck to his wrist and the heel of his palm. Insisting to himself on small victories, he took the steps slowly and managed not to spill a drop of tea.

He hesitated. Which to do first, deposit the tea or go to change his shirt? The shirt would take a while. He needed to change and wash his hands and he always took an extra few seconds with the tie that simply would not lie straight and flat no matter how he tried. The tea would go cold and the jam would congeal.

Did it matter? He set down the mug to open the door, picked it up again and set both on the bedside table. An unmistakably human lump remained concealed beneath the covers. "Come on, I know you're awake."

He gave the blanket-covered form a shake, only to be met with, "Go wash your hands, you're _dirty_."

"Tea and toast for you."

"I don't want tea and toast."

"Well you're an ingrate and I wish I were an only child."

The blankets shifted and a head emerged. "Do you really?"

Mycroft regarded his brother and his resolve melted. How could he do that? How could he look at that face, mouth half-open in frightened disbelief and eyes too old for their physical years, and say anything cruel? He knew Sherlock would understand. Worse, he would remember. "No, of course I don't."

Sherlock's lower lip jutted out. "You're mean!" he yelped, and disappeared under the covers again.

Mycroft sighed. "Tea and toast, Sherlock, and get up, you've school today."

"I don't want school!" The determined announcement was muffled, carrying up through the covers. "I'm going to be a pirate, anyway!"

"I thought you were going to be a monkey."

That had been the plan two days ago when Sherlock climbed up onto the high shelf in the closet and refused to come down. Mycroft deeply regretted telling him that monkeys were filthy animals that threw feces at one another. He would have meant it about selling Sherlock to the zoo, if any zoo would have taken him.

"Pirate monkey!"

He sighed and tore the covers away. Sherlock fought to hold onto them, but was no match for Mycroft and instead lay flat on the bed, legs out straight and arms close against his sides. Any older sibling would recognize the pose of utter refusal to do anything whatsoever. It would have been easier to take seriously without the brightly colored dinosaur jammies.

"Please get up."

Sherlock shook his head stiffly.

"Please."

Another shaken head.

"Will you have your tea if I leave you alone?"

"Maybe."

It would have to do, for now. Mycroft left for the next bedroom, hurriedly loosening his tie and unbuttoning his shirt. He listened for sounds: the mattress squeaking, a mug settled back against the table, footsteps. He heard none. He washed his hands, dressed, tied and straightened his tie, and heard nothing to suggest his brother had made any move towards getting up.

When he returned to the bedroom, Sherlock lay on the bed just as he had been before. Mycroft gave a somewhat dramatic sigh and said, "All right, but remember, you've pushed me to this."

Sherlock said nothing, but his expression shifted from defiant to wary. His eyes followed Mycroft as he neared the bed. A moment too late, he recognized his brother's intentions. By then there was nothing to be done. Mycroft had a firm grip on Sherlock's ankle and was dragging off his sock.

"No!"

"Getting up?"

"Pirates don't need year one! Pirates don't need year one!" Sherlock wailed, trying to wrench his foot away and failing. Mycroft tossed aside the tiny sock and ran a finger along his brother's foot. Sherlock giggled, though he tried to swallow it. Mycroft carried on, ruthlessly tickling until Sherlock shrieked with laughter. He had his brother completely helpless and had banished his sulky mood in minutes, which was worth the kick to the kidneys. Cries for mercy were ignored until, "I'm gonna pee, I'm gonna pee, I'm gonna peeeee!"

Mycroft stopped.

Sherlock sat up, gasping to catch his breath, then turned and stuck out his tongue. Never one to be outdone or let someone else have the last word, he was.

"Can you manage your uniform alone?"

"I want Mummy."

"Mummy's not feeling very well."

Sherlock pouted. He was clever enough that when he called people buffoons he not only meant it but tended to be right, but young enough to think it might affect the situation at all: "But I don't like you combing my hair."

"I promise not to hurt you. Come on."

Mycroft checked his school bag and Sherlock's, replaced the covers he had dumped on the floor, and gathered up Sherlock's dirty socks and pajamas. He fixed the five-year-old's lopsided buttons and washed jam from his face and hands. Sherlock was his usual self. Mycroft was sure he made as much of a mess as he could. Having his hair combed would have been a good deal less painful if he kept his head still. Mycroft resisted the urge to throttle his brother when Sherlock turned towards a bird singing outside and yanked against the comb so hard, he nearly tore out a chunk of hair. The next five minutes consisted of wailed abuse, heartbreaking and comedic at turns as only a small child can manage.

Mycroft locked the door as they left. The rain had lessened, now more like mist.

"I haven't anything to eat."

"Should've eaten your toast, then," he retorted, not feeling overly generous there after cleaning up the mess that resulted of licking up the jam. Given the amount that accumulated on Sherlock's nose and cheeks, Mycroft wondered if any of it at all had reached his mouth.

"I mean later."

"They'll give you food at school later."

"I don't like the food there."

"How would you know?"

"Because it's not the food here."

That was fair logic, coming from the boy who would not eat at their grandmother's.

Mycroft reached for his hand. Sherlock yanked away. "I can cross the street by my_self_," he snapped, and Mycroft thought he had been rather too hasty to withdraw his claim that he wished to be an only child.

They carried on for a while, Sherlock playing anagrams aloud with the names on street signs. When they turned a corner and came into sight of the schoolyard, though, he fell silent. Mycroft found a tiny hand clinging to his. Sherlock walked nearer to his brother, all but plastered to his side. Everyone had hoped Sherlock would simply forget what happened at playgroup—he had been so little and he never talked about it anymore—but some part of him must not have forgotten, because he was quivering now. It would have taken an idiotic optimism to assume that was a reaction to the cold.

The other children laughed and played and shouted. Mycroft had the sudden horrible image in his head of his little brother huddled under the slide, hoping not to be discovered. Or perhaps not the slide. Perhaps somewhere cleverer. It did not have to be the cleverest place in the world, just clever enough to outsmart primary school children.

He held tighter to Sherlock's hand. There was nothing he could do, really, nothing to quell the sick feeling in his stomach.

"What do you do after school?" he asked, not looking at Sherlock but the other children. They would turn against him. It would be the playgroup all over again. Mycroft knew that. He had the sudden thought that—why not? They might turn around and go back home. No one would know. Their mother might notice and not even mind. It would be a reprieve, though, not a solution. Sooner or later, Mycroft would throw his brother to the lions.

Might as well get it over with.

Even with his mind on the future, he knew when too much time had passed and prompted, "Sherlock!"

"I wait for you!" Sherlock replied, exasperated. "You've only told me eight times since Saturday!"

Eight would have sounded like a low number, except that Mycroft knew that was a literal count. It was bravado—genuine frustration, but bravado too, Sherlock's hand slick with sweat.

"Then you've no excuse not to. I'll be here to collect you."

Sherlock nodded.

"Do you want to go in by yourself?"

"No." Sherlock looked up at his brother. "I want everybody to see me with you."


	2. Chapter 2

The rain fell harder that afternoon, almost as though it had a purpose. Mycroft knew that thought was foolish and wholly unscientific: rain fell because of the hydrologi cycle, because of pressures and temperatures and evaporation and wind patterns… but as he walked back to the primary school to fetch his little brother, he could not help thinking the earlier, listless rain had been a warning and the current rain with its anger and force was a condemnation.

His umbrella had proven partially useless. It stopped the bulk of the rain from hitting him until the wind picked up. It did so now, just outside the school, sending a spray of heavy droplets to soak Mycroft from the knees down.

Just lovely.

The deeply dissatisfied look on Mycroft's face seemed older than his years, the decided frown and the chill in his eyes indicating the sort of intellectual disapproval uncommon in one at so emotional an age. He made no effort to join in the groups of mothers and nannies waiting for their children and charges. He knew better: they drew away from him, turned just slightly to lock him out with turned shoulders.

It was unintentional, unconscious even, but they reacted with subtle hostility to the wrongness they sensed in him.

Their coldness only bothered Mycroft because he knew they had taught it to their children. Whether intentionally or not, they had imparted to their young ones that this was the appropriate response to someone different. They spurned a twelve-year-old whose expression and mannerisms were too grown-up. What would their offspring do to a boy like Sherlock?

No, he realized, that was not the question. It was not about what their children would do to a boy like his little brother. As he watched the doorway where the mass of small children would soon emerge, Mycroft knew that the sense of dread in his belly was more to do with the past. What had their offspring done to Sherlock?

The rain picked up and Mycroft thought a word about the mothers and nannies, a word he pretended not to know in his father's presence.

_Whatever happened, it is not my fault._ He had been given no choice. Mycroft told himself this over and over: they had kept Sherlock home after what happened in playgroup, but he was five years old now, he had to go to school, he needed an education…

The door opened. The flood of kids boiling out of the school nearly toppled the teacher. Shrill, high-pitched voices called out as they parted from friends and greeted caretakers. The carers called to them, too: "Here I am, Kate!" "Tracy, Tracy!" "Come to Mummy, Markie!" to one particularly confused boy.

Mycroft did not call out. When he saw Sherlock step out of the school and pause, looking around, Mycroft did nothing to draw attention to himself. He did not shout or wave—particularly the shouting. He was sure Sherlock's first day at school had in some ways been similar to his own. _What sort of a name is 'Mycroft'? What sort of a name is 'Sherlock'?_, little snot-noses sneering because anything different must be inferior.

Anything different, name or boy. The last thing Sherlock needed was for Mycroft to call his name in front of the mothers. For them to go home saying, "'Sherlock'? What kind of a mother names a little boy 'Sherlock'?"

Instead he simply stood and waited. Sherlock spotted his brother and grinned. Mycroft smiled back and raised his hand in a subdued acknowledgment.

Sherlock darted through the crowd, skirting around his classmates and the bigger children, his schoolbag bouncing against his hip. There was a look of grim determination under his eagerness to reach Mycroft. When he did, he skidded to a halt in front of his brother and looked up at him with one of those devastating looks. Sherlock knew how to smile and get anything he wanted.

This was different. Not happy at all now, he looked almost resigned, like Mycroft telegraphing comprehension beyond his years. He quivered. He seemed uncertain as to whether or not he wanted to speak. Mycroft waited until Sherlock made a decision, and when the younger boy turned and began walking, Mycroft fell into step beside him.

He tried to formulate a good question. 'How was school' would be stupid, since Sherlock was obviously miserable about something. He was too young for homework, too different for friends. Launching into a lecture on the importance of education would only annoy Sherlock, who might very well dig in his heels and insist he had loved school, even though he clearly didn't, just to spite anyone assuming they knew his mind.

So Mycroft contented himself with comments like, "Left, Sherlock," and, "Look both ways before you cross the road, please," because he had no idea how to actually address the subject of school.

The rain continued to fall, bouncing off the umbrella. Mycroft did his best to shield both of them and managed to keep both of them somewhat dry.

Sherlock grew more and more agitated. By the time they were within a few blocks of home, his tiny fists were clenched and he took each step heavily, like he was trying to punch his feet through the pavement. He breathed angrily and his face soon became very pink. And were those tears clouding his eyes?

"It's only school, Sherlock," Mycroft to him gently.

"Well I hate it!"

Sherlock slipped his bag off his shoulder, spun it in a circle and hurled it onto the sidewalk. He looked from the bag to his brother. His eyes were wide in expectation, but expectation of what? Father would have been angry, but Mycroft only felt a bit confused. Sherlock had asked no questions, so Mycroft could give no answers. In truth, Mycroft simply did not know what to say.

He glanced around. They did not know most of the people who lived on this street. Most of the houses looked to be empty, no lights on, no cars; at least one family was on holiday.

"What happened?" Mycroft asked.

Sherlock stomped his feet in response. It struck Mycroft as almost funny. He remembered, sometimes, very suddenly, how small Sherlock was. Not even 20 kilos, not even 115 centimeters, but what chance stood the world against Sherlock Holmes?

But did he have to wage his little war in public like this?

"It's okay." Mycroft touched his brother's shoulder. Normally, Sherlock was more receptive to Mycroft than to almost anyone else, but today he rocked back. One more step and Sherlock stood out in the rain.

Mycroft sighed and stepped nearer, to keep both of them under the umbrella. Sherlock stepped back again.

"It's not okay! It's _boring!_"

Mycroft had to bite his lip to keep from laughing. What a wonderful relief! That was the trouble, that was the torment for his little brother: not the teasing from his peers as Mycroft had feared, but boredom!

"There are worse fates. Pick up your bag."

Sherlock pouted and crossed his arms over his chest. Fat drops of rain pattered across him, darkening his uniform.

"Pick up the bag, Sherlock," Mycroft said, indicating the bag still lying on the sidewalk. It had, luckily, remained shut. That would not save its contents once the rain soaked through, but he was having enough trouble with 'pick it up'. 'Clean up your things' would have surely been impossible.

"I know what the bag is," Sherlock snapped. Apparently he had taken Mycroft's indication not as emphasis but as clarification.

"Well then pick it up."

"I will!"

"Do so."

"I will, Mycroft, I really, really will!"

"So you say."

Defiantly, Sherlock picked up his schoolbag and put it over his shoulder. He was a clever little boy, no one doubted that, but he was still only five. He understood manipulation as far as grinning angelically for a cookie. So far as Sherlock was concerned, he had won a major victory. Mycroft felt no need to correct him.

Instead he extended his hand, just in case Sherlock had tired of marching half a step ahead with his chin held high, in case he wanted to be a little boy for a while longer. Sherlock held out his arms.

"You're getting big for that," Mycroft told him.

Sherlock's eyes widened. His lower lip jutted out and he tilted his head. Mycroft knew that look all too well. Nothing made him more jealous of his brother than that look. Mycroft had been cute in the way all small children are, but Sherlock… how could anyone say no when all they saw was bright eyes under a mop of black curls?

"That doesn't work on me," Mycroft retorted.

Sherlock said nothing.

Mycroft sighed and reasoned, "I can't carry you and the umbrella."

"We're nearly home," Sherlock said with the saccharine affected innocence of a child who knew he did not really deserve what he wanted.

"We'll be soaked when we get there."

Later, years and decades on, Mycroft would tell the story of what his strange little brother used to do when things were not going his way. He would tell what resembled friends in his life and what resembled a friend in Sherlock's life that when he was just a little boy after a difficult first day at school, Sherlock Holmes looked up at his big brother and batted his eyelashes.

And Mycroft, in turn, folded his umbrella, then crouched down so Sherlock could climb onto his back.

**to be continued**

_I really did mean this as a one-part story... but then it got into my head. And grew._


End file.
